


Lustschloss

by Snowgrouse



Category: Escape (1940), Original Work
Genre: 1940s, Age Difference, Ageplay, Anal Fingering, Anal Orgasms, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Androgynous male character, Androgyny, Aristocrats - Freeform, Ass Slapping, Ass tasting, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Castles, Choking, Cowgirl Position, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dark Het, Debauchery, Deepthroating, Discipline, Dominant Androgynous Male Character, Dominant Male Character, Domination, Established Relationship, F/M, Face Slapping, Fellatio, Female sexual agency, Fire, Fireplaces, First time anal, Foot Fetish, Foot On Chest, Genital Shaving, Hair-pulling, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Historical, Horny Teenagers, Horny female character, Intelligent Submissive Female Character, Jackboots, Literary References, Literate Perverts, Long sex scenes, Lube, Military Uniforms, Monocle porn, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Positions, Naked Female Clothed Male, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, PWP, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Perverse Aristocrats, Petite Female Character, Pussy Flicking, Pussy Nuzzling, Queer Het, Romance, Romanticism, Rough Sex, Scents & Smells, Sensuality, Sex On A Bearskin Rug By A Fireplace, Sex by a Fireplace, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spooning, Spooning anal, Spurs, Squirting, Submissive Female Character, Tall Male Character, Tenderness, Trampling, Undressing, Uniforms, Vaginal Sex, Weimar Berlin, World War II, boot licking, can be read as a standalone/original fic, elegance fetish, fairytale references, glamour, heterosexual anal sex, poetic prose, pussy juice, pussy slapping, uniform porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-12 17:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: Within the mirrored hallways, upon the chequered floors and amidst the Rococo furniture of his pleasure-palace, Baron Kurt von Kolb teaches his 17-year-old fiancée, Lady Ursula, everything she must know about the perversions of a true aristocrat.She'd thought she'd feel a princess the day he finally took her to his castle, but instead of the sumptuous dinner she'd been expecting, he had but led her to a marble bathroom and presented her with razor and enema syringe instead. So that her sex would be bare for his pleasure, he'd said; so that he would be able to see and touch and taste everything, he'd said; so that she would be clean for him tonight when he'd take her more deeply, more completely, more thoroughly than she'd ever been taken before, he'd said.***He runs the spur of his jackboot up her breastbone, dipping it into the hollow of her throat."Good girl," he purrs, smirking through his monocle. "You did not flinch once.""Thank you, sir," she says, squeezing her shivering hands into fists, proud of her self-control.For now, she rests in a state of complete nakedness at his feet, he towering over her in his uniform as she lies there upon his drawing room floor.





	Lustschloss

**Author's Note:**

> _**Lustschloss,** n. In Renaissance and Early Modern German architecture, a Lustschloss (French: **maison de plaisance,** English: **pleasure palace** ) is a small palace which served the private pleasure of its owner, usually the ruler of the area it is located in, and was seasonally inhabited as a respite from court ceremonies and state duties._

He runs the spur of his jackboot up her breastbone, dipping it into the hollow of her throat. 

"Good girl," he purrs, smirking through his monocle. "You did not flinch once." 

"Thank you, sir," she says, squeezing her shivering hands into fists, proud of her self-control.

For now, she rests in a state of complete nakedness at his feet, he towering over her in his uniform as she lies there upon his drawing room floor. 

His grand drawing room floor in his grand ancient castle, with its Rococo furniture and its mirrored halls, with its grand fireplace whose roaring fire is doing nothing to subdue her chills. The walls are panelled in white and gold, only emphasising the room's coldness as the afternoon sun's rays bid their farewells through its windows, glittering through crystals of ice and chandelier alike. It seems as if the room has lain unused for a while, too, as if His Excellency had been about to move out, but had tarried out of a perverse whim to carry out one last farewell ritual: the black and white chequered floors are bare but for the dainty little Rococo sofa by the fireplace, and the rolled-up bearskin rug beside it. It's as if he'd thought to use the rug before the fireplace at first, but had then decided to decorate the floor with a trophy far prettier, worthier, far more befitting a man calling himself a libertine: namely, Lady Ursula Cannon, his seventeen-year-old bride. 

All the hair on her body stands on end, and her heart is pounding; she can feel its each pulse in her sex, bare against the evening air. 

Bare to his gaze--just as he'd wanted it. She'd thought she'd feel a princess the day he finally took her to his castle, but instead of the sumptuous dinner she'd been expecting, he had but led her to a marble bathroom and presented her with razor and enema syringe instead. So that her sex would be bare for his pleasure, he'd said, his pleasure and hers; so that he would be able to see and touch and taste everything, he'd said. So that she would be clean for him when he'd take her tonight, he'd said; when he'd take her more deeply, more completely, more thoroughly than she'd ever been taken before, he'd said.

So much for princesses: she feels rather one of Bluebeard's brides. 

There's one crucial exception, however. Namely, the fact that she is to him a companion willing--nay, more than just willing: for she is his accomplice, his co-conspirator, his co-sinner in thought and deed. For the fairytales never tell of girls such as Ursula, girls who are themselves as perverse as these tyrants; the narrators, never having themselves wedded these beasts, have never known the sensual rewards these villainesses reap in their villains' beds. No, the fairytales never speak of the sweet sting of the lash and the way it hardens the nipples; never of the way a crooked leer makes the female sex wet, pulse, tighten. Never, ever do they speak of the sweet sparks of pleasure such as the one now travelling from the dip of her collarbone to the very back of her womb as Kurt presses upon her throat with the spur, presses. 

All these things and more has he already shown to her in the days leading up to the one upon which she can be, finally--in the eyes of the law, at least--made his: not just some poor, hapless maiden rotting in an oubliette, but a woman to be feared in her own right: _a baroness._

A baroness, a baroness. In the two years she'd spent in that hideous school for girls upon the mountaintop, the Countess had never managed to bring Ursula up into a lady, truly educate her for the life of a noblewoman, despite her pretensions of preparing the girls for the world. Why, in these past few months, Kurt has taught Ursula far more about the ways of the true aristocrat than any prim and proper widow ever could: he's taught her how to lie, how to manipulate, how to hypnotise; how to exert her powers over weaklings in a manner most ruthless. 

And in the evenings, her most favourite lessons of all: those of whoredom, those of dissolution, those of _fucking like a courtesan._

For a courtesan has pride, poise coupled with her whoredom, Kurt had told her: hence, his testing of her in this manner, of whether she could submit as beautifully as a true hetaira. For the greatest of courtesans--whose blood, through one of Charles II's many mistresses, flowed also in Lady Ursula's veins--had always become the muses of great men, he'd told her: their beauty and their sensuality and their blazing spirit inspiring countless works of art, countless.

But it had always been because these women had themselves been works of art, he'd said, self-made masterpieces: their immaculate dress, their exquisite toilettes, their expert caresses guided by the hands of Venus herself. All paintings, books and photographs of these women were but poor reproductions, he'd said, claiming that as a boy, he'd seen Mata Hari dance: therefore, all of these recordings men had made of these goddesses were but feeble attempts to capture the flame within. 

And it is this flame that he now seeks to stoke in her, fuel in her, so as to make of her a conflagration.

 _This sin is my gift unto you, my child: will you now be able to wear it like other women wear their designer dresses, bought for them by their husbands in Paris?_ he'd asked her in one of his letters Baudelairean. _This pain is my gift unto you, too: will you be able to wear it like jewellery, blood-drops as rubies upon your breasts, your tears like diamonds scattered among them?_ he'd asked her in another, Sadeian. _Will you be able to wear your whoredom a garland, your infamy a tiara with your head held high, knowing yourself better than these fools among whom you reign?_ he'd asked her with a boldness Byronian.

 _Yes,_ she'd cried at him in response, _yes!_ with all of her youth and her longing and her yearning calling out to him from the depths of her being; _Yes, yes, yes!_ she'd screamed in his bed until her throat had been raw from within and without, her life-blood thrumming afire as he'd curled his hands about her throat and her wrists, her release gushing down his thighs.

And it is the same _yes_ he now reads in her eyes, she knows this: it makes him chuckle deep in his belly, the leather of his belt and his boots creaking as he takes said boot to her sternum and _presses._ He tests the strength of her chest, lowering half his weight upon her, now; he leans closer, close enough that she can smell the sweat inside of his uniform, the faint scent of his genitals--must, musk, piss--within his jodhpurs. His chuckle is never the chuckle of a man, either, not completely: there is always a disturbing, high-pitched giggle to it thanks to his thinness, another one of his bizarrely feminine traits within such an imposing, tall male body. 

And it strikes her that perhaps he, in testing her strength, seeks to sup upon it, she in so many ways stronger than he: from having eavesdropped on his and the Countess’s conversations, Ursula knows him to be a man ill, suffering from a lethal weakness, a heart disease--yet one he manages to mask perfectly. 

Thus, in her yielding, she gives unto him of her youthful strength, knowing already how much it pleases him to receive this gift from her: how much taller, how much heavier, how much more powerful he grows from it. Therefore, she makes sure her eyes are as wide as possible, as frightened, as girlish as can be: he knows and she knows that the _pretense_ of her playing the little girl, the very fact that it's a woman in the body of a child _choosing_ to play one for the sake of perversion alone is what gives their play its piquancy. That it is for the sake of pleasure that she chooses to artifice for him this state of innocence, takes delight in posing for him with a sex hairless, without any makeup on her face, without even her innocent nail varnish, pink: that she only adopts this state of purity to have it tarnished, ravaged, soiled by him.

 _Take this my body,_ she thinks at her Kurt the vampire, Kurt her lover the ghoul: _Break me open as you cleave unto me, my darling, so that you will not die but through me, live. Feast upon my life so that you might replenish your own, be born from my womb anew; break the last of this shell of my maidenhood so that I--like a seed bursting open within the earth--may, from the soil of your perversion, rise unto a new life, too._

Her ribcage creaks, but she hears this as if from somewhere far away: for now, she has drifted into that marvellous state of perfect calm she has only ever experienced during their play. Her heartbeat no longer thrums in her ears, her breathing has stilled to almost nothing, and she regards him with complete serenity, lying at his feet like a marble statue of a barbarian conquered: dignified even in her submission, noble, nobler and beautifuller than the one subjugating her. Her arms and her legs lie lax as she surrenders her beauty to his gaze, envying daylight as joyous, it plunges itself into the prussic of his eyes and there, dies.

Is this how the soul of a butterfly feels when her fragile body--which, in the wild, only lives for a day and is then blown to dust, dissolved, gone--is immortalised by a collector, transfixed into a frame to be hung up on his library's wall, her beauty preserved for all eyes for all time?

Kurt lets out a little, huffing laugh; his mouth gleams red and wet like a stripe of fresh blood daubed upon the lips of a pagan idol. 

And in a flash, he takes his boot off her chest and uses it to flip her onto her belly instead: immediately, the cold marble slamming into her front awakens her, her heart leaping into a gallop once more.

He makes to reach out to her, but now, something seems to have caught his eye: when he realises what it is, he laughs and then tuts, coos in a voice sugared, condescending. "But, Ursula, my poor child!" He clicks his tongue, now pressing his foot into the middle of her back instead. "You've made a _stain_ on the floor," he says with his eyes open wide, mock-appalled. "What will the servants think?"

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, automatically; she tries to get a better look at him over her shoulder, but her hair is now such a wild cloud of curls over her face that it covers her eyes, too. 

"Wrong answer," he says, pretending he's outraged. "Now, you talk like a servant yourself, a peasant!" he scoffs, nudging her buttock with his toe. "Think, my child. What would a _baroness_ do in such a situation? Hmm?"

Of course. "She would not care," she says, at once ashamed and proud when he rocks her with his foot a little and hums, pressing his weight into her spine. "The servants--well, it would not be any of their business, and they would not dare ask her about any details."

"Ex-act-ly, my child," he says with an exaggerated slowness, with a twisted fatherly pride. "You're learning." He leaps over her, then turns her over with his foot once more; when she can see him once again, he is smiling, his crooked teeth glittering with saliva.

"Thank you, sir," she says, unable to hide her joy; her heart flutters, and with it, her pussy, too.

He tilts his head, considering her as a cat considers a sparrow. "In fact, I think you've earned a reward, my child," he says softly, running his fingertips across his groin. 

He sits on the dainty little Rococo sofa by the fire; despite his elegant movements, the sofa is far too tiny for someone like him, he dwarfing its white and its gold as he poises his long, thin body upon it. Just like the rest of his castle, this room seems to have been built for frivolous eighteenth-century ladies in white face-paint, in their great white wigs and their great, wide panniers, waving their fans as they sipped sweet tea and ate rich, sugary cakes. 

Nevertheless, he makes himself comfortable and spreads his legs. "Here, at my feet," he says, like to a dog, and pats his knee. "Come."

She makes her way between his legs, makes her hands small and childlike upon his knees: she looks up at him in expectation, knowing how much he hates for her to act without his permission. Therefore, it is her obedience she now uses to stir him, to flirt with him, poising herself beautifully at his feet like a little porcelain figurine. 

It is her mouth he wants, she is sure of this; yet, she cannot disguise her surprise when he undoes his fly to reveal a penis completely soft, his scrotum loose around his testicles. 

Immediately, anger rises within her, and with it, insecurity: after all she's done for him, how on earth is it possible for him to still remain unaffected? 

"I am not impotent, if that's what you think, my child," he says, sharp when he senses her disappointment. "This, too, is self-discipline." He takes her by the chin. "You must learn this, too: to control your desire so as to better focus it, so that it will not be dissipated, wasted before you've even started."

Immediately, she knows he is wrong about this: even she knows enough about sex to know that women can go on practically for ever, whereas running out of stamina during play is a much bigger concern for men. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not a man," she says, meeting his eyes with smile bold, too bold. "I once masturbated from sunset to sunrise. So, you see, I doubt I will run out of energy any time soon."

He frowns, even if he knows her to be right; if anything, he seems more annoyed by her daring to challenge him--and threatened, perhaps, by the idea of her stamina, as if their age difference and his concealed illness were not considerable handicaps for him to begin with. But she expected this, too: he has not punished her nearly enough, and she is greedy for more pain, a glutton for it, impatient in her need to feel the force of his body driving into hers, whether it be the blows of his cock or the blows of his hands and feet.

He narrows his eyes and hisses; he tugs upon her lower lip with his thumb. "You think I'm that easy, do you?" he says, unable to conceal a smile; even if she never takes her eyes from his, she can feel his hips twitching. "It didn't occur to you that I might have said that to test you?" 

And at that, he slaps her cheek, slaps her so hard her hair flies and stars dance in her eyes. "Because I knew you for an audacious little _bitch?_ " she hears him say through her ringing ears, her panting breath, her now-staggering heartbeat as she lolls there.

"I--"

And now, he pulls her head up by the hair and shakes it, his cock shifting a little as he does so. "Talking back to your elders like that," he tuts. "Perhaps I shan't give you your reward after all."

"Please," she gasps, dizzy, and she wonders whether her lip is bleeding; now, her pussy aches so much it _hurts._ She hangs there, her head but inches from his cock, his grip not allowing her to look at anything else. And now, stirred by her pain, his cock is finally awakening into arousal: the tip of it is peeking out of its hood, the slit now glistening with the tiniest bead of sweet-smelling sap; she can almost taste it, the salt-sugar of it, and her mouth floods with saliva. "Please, sir."

He glances down at his cock, then at her face once more. "So you want to suck my cock, hmm? Is that it? Here I am, trying to teach you manners, and yet that's all you can think about, you little _slut?_ " 

"Yes!" she gasps in defiance, fevered from her greed, knowing exactly how much it arouses him, too, for her to admit it all to him in explicit detail. Therefore, "Yes," she says, articulating with intent: "I want to suck your cock."

"Whore!" He slaps her again, this time on the other cheek, now so hard that tears spring to her eyes, escaping down to her cheeks as he pulls her head up by the hair once more. His eyes flicker back and forth, unnaturally pale, unnaturally wide and he's panting; just as she'd predicted, her dirty words have but fanned the flames of his arousal, his smile now sharp, wolfish. 

Yet, now, he seems to have had an idea. 

Abruptly, he lets go of her hair and kicks her down onto the floor. Pretending boredom, he leans his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his head on his hand, tapping at his temple with an extended index finger. "My boots, first," he finally says and holds out one foot, his spur clicking as he braces his heel on the floor. "And don't you dare touch yourself. Kneel, and keep your hands behind your back."

 _His boots._ Never before has he humiliated her so exquisitely. A twisted pride curls in her belly, her pussy leaping as she kneels at his feet and does as she's told, crossing her wrists at the small of her back. "Yes, master," she whispers, never taking her eyes from his as she bends to her task with a pious fervour. 

She begins slowly, extending her tongue-tip so that he can see the exact moment it touches the tip of his boot: as it does, he lets out a _moan_ through his teeth. _Victory,_ she thinks, _oh, sweet victory;_ now, all of him trembles, and she has barely even started!

Thankfully, his boots are clean, well-polished: he doesn't seem to have worn them outside today, and she does not know whether this proves his consideration for her, or the fact that this truly is an unplanned whim on his part. It has to be the latter, the consequences of which he was not at all prepared for: because the more she licks at his boots, the more he seems to be struggling to remain in control. His knuckles blanch as he clutches at the cushions, his veins swell upon his temples and his cheeks puff a little, juddering; indeed, it's as if every little lick she delivers to his boots were a lick delivered straight to his genitals. 

Following on from this, she makes love to his boots, turning her submission into a seduction. She makes sure he can see and feel how she flickers her tongue the exact same way she would along the shaft of his cock, mouthing the tips of his boots the same way she would mouth the tip of his glans; she even makes sure the little gasps she lets out when drawing in breath sound exactly like the breaths she steals during fellatio. 

He has a curious way of pleasuring himself, the way he does this very moment: he draws up his foreskin and clasps the head of his cock through it with his fingertips, barely touching it, his thumb upon the crown and his index and middle finger upon the frenulum, moving the foreskin up and down over the tip. He never pulls it down all the way, making a soft, tender little rosebud of it around the tip; little by little, this subtle milking of himself begins to fill that little nest with clear sap, glistening dewlike at its tip. Another reminder of just how precious a treasure pleasure-energy is to a man, an aging man in particular: she feels pity rather than anything else at his having to guard it with such avaricious greed.

But she wants to plunder this treasure, to reclaim it, to bring it back to where it belongs: to fill with it the chamber of her own sex now so empty it's aching, demanding to be filled with that wonderful thickness, redness, heaviness and heat. A glutton, she lets her body curve with the heat that now flows from her hips to her limbs, swaying there, rocking her buttocks to tease him with them. She pulls back, again extends her tongue and begins to give him long, long licks all the way from his toes to the tops of his boots, and oh: now, he _shudders._ A veritable spasm goes through his body and his knees knock together; the sap that'd pooled in the nest of his foreskin now falls out, spattering over his hand, splashing onto his jodhpurs.

He hisses and squeezes his cock; another trickle over his knuckles, now trembling from strain. "Little bitch," he snaps, his words a lash; with his free hand, he again yanks her head up by the hair, making her pussy clench so violently that now her own body jerks from this spasm, mirroring his.

For a while, he regards her there, dangling her by her hair as she kneels there, his eyes wide and glittering with cruelty. It's a miracle his monocle hasn't fallen off, now only serving to concentrate his gaze as he bores it into her, already taking her if not with his prick, then his eyes. Only her gasps and her galloping heartbeats punctuate the silence as she stares up at him, swaying there; her wet vulva drags against the cold tiles of the floor and once again, she jerks in his grip.

With an abrupt growl, he yanks her closer and catches her neck between his thighs; he crushes her face against his cock with both hands. There, he squeezes, squeezes her throat so tight that she chokes; as thin as his thighs are, they are strong enough to cut off her breath, her circulation completely _and she lets him_. For long moments, there is but the pulse of her blood, the pulse of his cock against her face, his hips lifting and again that perverse giggle-chuckle in his belly: she but reels there, her nostrils full of his musk, her tongue sticking out in reflex against his skin, carrying that chuckle deep into her own skull. All of her is choking on the force of his muscles and his bones, his _power_ and his virility and his cock, his cock, his cock; she can feel the blood packing into her face until it must be scarlet, her head pounding and it's thrumming, and her ears are whistling and her vision starts to blacken, her head thrumming, her pussy thrumming--

Now, he yanks her head back again, smirking a little as he watches her gulping in lungfuls of air, contemplating the tears and the saliva streaking down her face. Again, he tilts his head to the side with an eerie, catlike swiftness, now even accompanying it with a playful purr. "Now, look at the mess you made," he coos, scooping up the wetness from his cock and holding his sticky hand out before her face. "What kind of a dirty girl makes a man do that? Hmm?"

"I do," she rasps, defiant, sniffing back her tears.

He throws back his head and chuckles, then snaps that chuckle in half with his teeth.

"Slut," he spits and smears his wet hand over her face.

She shrieks into his hand, shivering, her pussy now clenching over and over; he but catches her moans into his palm and then proceeds to rub his hand all over her face, her hair, marking her with his scent. "Clean it up, girl," he croons and lifts his hand up to her mouth again, audacious in his condescension; "clean it up," he keeps on purring as she does so, she now drinking in his vileness just as she drinks in the salt-sugar taste of his cock. 

Drunk, now, she laves his hand, sucking upon each of his fingers; yet, when she attempts to fellate two of them, he but presses her tongue down with them until she chokes. "You do love to suck on that taste, don't you, my child?" he asks, never taking his fingers out of her mouth.

"Yes," she coughs around his fingers, trying not to vomit. This, too, is a test, a test she has failed before: but now she has trained her throat, trained it with her own fingers so as to better take him, and she will show him, show him how.

He taps her tongue and brings those two fingers to his cock. "Then you must clean this up, too. But you must be very careful. No teeth," he says and tugs her by the hair. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He pets her hair, a mockery of tenderness, a perversion of fatherhood. "Good girl. Now, come closer," he croons as he guides her head to his cock, "There we are. You can use your hands, now. Clasp it here, at the root, like this," he demonstrates and helps her wrap her fingers around it, fingers whose grip she still keeps deliberately little, young, soft. "That's it," he says and moves her other hand to his thigh, so that she can lean against it. "Are you comfortable? Because you will have to remain in that position for a while."

"Yes, sir," she says, not looking into his eyes: she is mesmerised by his cock, by the marvellous heat of it in her hand, the silken softness over such hardness always to her such a wonder. 

She wonders if other men's skin is as soft down here, or if it's just Kurt's own secret femininity again, the femininity the depth of which only Ursula knows: the skin of his penis is as soft as her own inner labia are, petal-soft, and again she thinks of rosebuds as he guides her to stroke him a little, the movement lifting his foreskin into a whorl around the tip once more. She has done this before, has done it a dozen times, but as he so enjoys this kind of debauchement-play, her pretending innocence, she throws herself into it with renewed relish. For is it not a chance for her, too, to experience it all for the first time once more, to see it and feel it all anew? Thus, like a virgin, she now tests the weight and width and feel of his prick in her hand, observing his responses, adoring him the way he now adores her. 

Is it his own lost innocence that he now seeks to recapture with these games, she wonders? She has heard of aging men, men even older than Kurt is at forty-seven, who chase young girls for that express purpose of self-rejuvenation, as if these girls' maiden wombs were indeed the very fountains of youth; as if making love to virgins would somehow magically repair the ravages time had wrought.

Yet she cannot think of Kurt himself sinking that low, becoming that obvious, that pathetic: seductor he may be, but a seductor _selective,_ one possessed of the gift of discrimination, an exquisite taste whether it be women or wines or fine dining. No, no: Kurt has far too much dignity, reason and honour to become a serial skirt-chaser, a reckless and vulgar cad. 

Yet, she wonders. For now, he indeed looks much younger the way he gazes down upon her, with an awe that makes him almost boyish, despite the wrinkles around his eyes and his receded, silvered hair; he glows almost virginal himself, the way he now looks at her with a bridegroom's wonder, caressing her cheek with his hand. 

"Good girl. Now, give it a little kiss. Shall I show you how?"

"Please," she says, smiling at him, and it comes out so young and so bright that now she, too, genuinely feels the delight of a maiden on her wedding night. "Show me, sir."

"Well, first of all, you have to be very careful with the foreskin. It must be pulled back--gently--ah, just like that. You're a natural," he purrs as she exposes the glans, glistening wonderfully in the firelight, her mouth again watering at the scent and sight. 

"Thank you, sir," she says, glad, her heart filled with delight. "Show me how?"

"Well, you must take the whole head into your mouth, and then close your lips around it very gently." He brings his fingertips to his frenulum, stroking it softly. "This spot here is very sensitive, and it feels especially good when you rub it with your tongue. Do you think you can do that? Hold it in your mouth and rub this," he taps at it with his fingers, "with your tongue at the same time?"

"Of course I can," she says brightly. "Please, let me try."

"Go on, then," he says and opens his legs, leaning back and spreading his arms over the back of the sofa, with such natural majesty he is become the very image of a debauched sultan breaking in a new slave girl. "Let me see how you do it."

She tosses back her hair and sets down to worship. At first, she keeps up the pretense of innocence, making her mouth small, as if she had never fellated a man before--and oh, but the gasp this elicits from him, the way his hips lift into her smallness, seeking to ravage! She revels in gifting him with this, the fantasy of the little girl ruined, even hesitating a little as she wraps her lips around the head, as if it were difficult for her to fit it into her mouth. She lets her tongue tremble, unsure, tentative, looking up at him to make sure if she is doing it right; the high-pitched little whimper he lets out at that, barely audible, another prize for her collection. 

For her collection of trophies is what she thinks of his reactions as, all these little noises and movements and words and breaths she has drawn out of his body with her skill; all victory-wreaths woven by her own hands from the living, tender vines of his desire. All of his sighs and his tremors and his moans does she thus claim for her laurels, all drops of his sap upon her heart for holy anointings; every shower of his sperm both her garland and her chrism, glistening radiant upon her breast and brow.

And now, the cup of the victor: she takes him as deep into her mouth as she can and starts to suck, a courtesan's suck, with the most perfect of flutters of her tongue against that exact spot that whips him into a frenzy. He, too, is far too aroused to pretend any longer, clutching at the golden rocailles of the sofa with his knuckles white; a low, animal keen ripples out deep from his belly as he starts to thrust into her mouth. She wonders if there is already a wet stripe on the floor from her pussy, the way it touches the floor each time she moves her body for his pleasure: his pleasure and hers, she all but rubbing herself against the tiles, now even making wet, sticky noises every time she sways there. Her clitoris is so distended, her folds so swollen that she can feel them keenly each time her vulva touches the floor; her sex and his, each rocking into its own pleasure in time, like copulating figurines on a bawdy automaton. 

She looks up and knows she must've been right about the stain, that he can smell her: his nostrils flutter in the way they always do when he scents her arousal, his lips glistening as he smacks them in delight. He coos, croons, thrusting into her mouth with a sweet cruelty, now, adoring her gags; he always says he loves to feel her tears against his shaft, his belly, and now unbuttons tunic and shirt to do just that. 

Gladly, she pulls back for breath only to wipe her eyes upon his belly, kissing it in benediction, gifting to him all her tears before he returns her to her task once more. Now with her forehead against the heat of his stomach, she revels in the wonderful warmth of his skin, the softness of it feminine here, too; yet coupled with a musculature lean and hard and sinewed, that of one born to hunt, to chase. 

Lean and hungry like her father's greyhounds, too delicate for the forests but victors on the race courses: Baron Kurt von Kolb likewise the product of centuries of breeding, of refinement, unfit for the battlefield but the keenest and sharpest of hunters at the royal courts, devouring willing women and crushing weaker men. She wonders what kind of a duellist Kurt would be, what he would look like wielding a sword, she light-headed as he cuts off her breath once more: delirious visions of him in lace cravats, white wigs and brocades, sabre in hand fill her rapidly-misting, swooning mind. Slashing steel, blood, steel--

And now, she is upon the floor, he having pushed her off himself, he heaving upon the sofa, clawing its cushions, his cock dragging against his stomach. There is a strange noise, a terrifying noise in his throat as he forces himself into stillness, his cock lifting out as his belly dips with a tightly held breath, then slapping back wet against his bare skin. Another noise, this time of impatience as he tears off his tunic, shirt and belt; now, he straightens himself out into his full height, only wearing his boots and his jodhpurs, his braces swinging loose around his thighs as he looms over her. 

Again, she sees herself from far away as she lets herself be rearranged by him, into a position that best pleases him: with her arse in the air, facing the sofa which he has now dragged closer to the fireplace; her face down on the floor, so close to the fire that its heat now licks her face. Trapped between two heats, she thinks; his breath warm upon the wetness of her sex, and now, he will finally take her--

Yet, now, a tissue lands next to her head. "Wipe it," he says and smacks her pussy, grinning at her as he sits back on the sofa, dangling his hands between his knees. "I want to start afresh, you see," he smirks, his monocle still glittering in his right eye. "See how it wets for me."

Shivering, she does as she is told, making sure no flecks of paper remain clinging to her folds. After, she even tucks her folds inside of the outer lips of her vulva, since he always asks that of her, too: more for him to open, he says.

For it is indeed a game of him slowly opening her that he now wishes to play: again, she shivers as he leans close, his breath soft upon the aching heat of her pussy, his hands gentle upon her buttocks, as a cat's paws are velvet before the claws come out. She stiffens entirely despite herself, her skin erupting with gooseflesh; as he brings his thumbs to the sides of her pussy, the hollows between its lips and her thighs, she cannot help but whimper into her arms. 

Yet it is upon the end of that whimper that the greatest shock to her pussy comes: for now, he _squeezes_ its lips together with his thumbs, rhythmically, repeatedly; she stutters out a high, broken cry as he finds the very root of her clitoris inside the plushness of her mound and concentrates his next pinches, rubs there. Even through her noises, she can hear his breath catching, too; from the corner of her eye, she can see his legs twitching, his cock bobbing as if the pulses of her pleasure were somehow transmitted through his hands into his own body. How does he even know how to caress a woman like this? Where has he studied, learned? She doesn't know; how he can even find the root when she is this swollen--

And it is then that he _nuzzles_ her. She jerks away from him by reflex; then forces herself to remain in place, even if the touch of his lips makes her nerves curl and crawl and itch for a firmer touch, or no touch at all, _anything_ except this maddening lightness. He uses no tongue, no teeth: with a strange tenderness, even, he but mouths her sex slowly and sweetly, kissing her, _inhaling her._ Loving, seemingly unhurried, he drags his mouth back and forth across her pussy, luxuriating in its newfound smoothness, mewling a little in his throat; that mewl travelling straight into her very womb the way he now pours it inside of her a libation. 

And on and on he continues, she in awe at this unexpected worship: with soft moans, his thin lips spread open against the fullness of her sex's lips, soft as they nuzzle and tease hers open in this exquisite kiss; again, his breath catches a little as her inner labia, too heavy with blood to stay tucked in for long, unfurl like petals against the sun-heat of his mouth.

He her sun, as it should be--but what is she to him, she again wonders? Is it truly--just as in her delirious imaginings--her youth, her life that he is now supping from, the way he moans in ecstasy as her wetness returns, each clench and pulse of her internal muscles pursing more and more sugar-sap onto his lips?

But it feels so wonderful, too wonderful for her thoughts to remain still, her body even less so. She is desperate, now, too tortured to control herself: once he plunges his tongue inside of her, she lets out a sharp howl and begins to rut back into his face; with the rolls of her hips, she pleads for him to continue.

He but greets her hips by stiffening his tongue and dipping it ever deeper, pushing his face right back into her; with a playful growl-laugh, he begins to truly take her pussy with his tongue, pound her pubic bone with the bones of his own face, letting her take him as he takes her. His tongue, his teeth, his laughter: all of them taking her and yet it isn't enough, not nearly enough, not deep enough, not hard enough; he knows this.

"Please, Kurt. Please," she cries, clawing at the floor, her face burning from the fire, burning from the heat of her desperation.

"What's that?" he asks and flicks her clitoris with his fingertips, the sharp snap of it echoing through her pubic bone; when she screams and jerks back in shock, he but does it again, snapping the top of her slit so hard that her sap sprays onto her thighs. Over and over, he keeps on flicking her pussy until she is sobbing from the pleasure-pain, sobbing deep from her hips as her vagina and her womb _curl_ at each one of his flicks; until it is only his arm around her trembling thighs that keeps her in place, keeps her from falling over.

"Please!" she whimpers into her arm, flinching back even from his breath, now.

"What is it that you want, my child?" he asks her, infuriatingly calm; now tender, he brings his fingertips back to the hood of her clitoris and strokes her softly, as if he had never been tormenting her at all. 

"Please," she moans. "Please, take me. I can't bear it."

He flicks her clitoris once more, sending her wailing, again balancing her with his hand when she tries to squirm away. "Mmm. Remember where you promised to take me tonight, Ursula. Don't tell me you're reneging on your promise, now?"

"No!" she says over her shoulder, yet her arse clenches at the idea. "Just take me. I don't care how."

He but chuckles and rubs her clitoris some more. "I can tell you've never been sodomised before. Usually girls want to get their pussies fucked first, even the boot-girls," he says coarsely, always loving to shock her, humiliate her with his memories of Berlin's brothels. "To soften them up, they say; otherwise it hurts too much, even for an old whore. Or is it that you're more like the boys?" he says and tilts his head, his monocle glinting in the firelight, and now he pinches her clitoris with one hand, dragging another hand's thumb across the wetness of her slit and all the way up to her anus, tapping there. "So eager that you could just take me like this?" and he plunges his thumb into her arse and _hooks_ it there, a white flash, a shock shooting up her spine--

And she is _coming._ He is hooking his thumb inside her arse, hooking it rhythmically while pinching her clitoris at the same time, and she is coming. Lightning-fast, the pulses of white heat from her clitoris meet the white-hot pulses from her arse and she shrieks, judders in shock upon his hands. She is coming, this orgasm unlike any pleasure she's ever felt before, her pussy pulsing, trickling over his hand as she chokes, gags, spasms as if in seizure between his hands. 

"My, my!" His laughter is that of genuine surprise, a little high-pitched, but mercifully, he is so amused by this that he doesn't stop: he but keeps on tugging at her, rolling his thumb inside of her arse, massaging her clitoris and letting her rut against his hand in aftershocks. "But, Ursula! You most definitely _are_ a natural," he laughs and pulls out his thumb, sucking upon it in shameless delight. 

"I--" she gasps, staring at him through her hair now fallen over her face, little electric shocks still travelling all over her body, grateful when he finally lets go of her clitoris, too. Reflexively, she lifts her own hand to cup her pussy, to protect it from him; he is even kind enough to allow her to collapse onto the floor for a moment to catch her breath. "Oh, my God."

"But that was _beautiful,_ my child," he chuckles and brings his hand to his cock. "Shall we try it again, hmm? With something a little bigger?" 

She can still barely breathe, now unable to stop shivering, her arse still spasming. "Yes, please," she manages through chattering teeth. 

"Although, no..." he coos and lifts her leg to look at her pussy. "No. You've gone to such trouble to make it so pretty for me. It would be wasteful of me to leave such a pretty little peach unfucked." He kisses her hand between her legs, her pussy where it's peeking through her fingers. "But a moment."

And finally, he allows her the mercy of the bearskin rug: already she knows she will have bruises on her knees tomorrow morning. _But now,_ she laughs inside as he unrolls it before the fire, _the bruises will have burns for company, for sure._

"What are you laughing at?" he asks playfully over his shoulder as he stokes the fire to make it higher, brighter; his long, bare back curved as he squats there, his braces dragging the floor on either side of his hips.

She stretches upon the rug, luxuriating in the brush of soft fur against her naked limbs, basking in the heat of the fire, the heat of his gaze. "I was just thinking of how beautiful you were."

"No one has said that about me for a long time," he chuckles with a genuine warmth, using the tissue she'd used to mop herself to now wipe his hands, as if to perfume them with the fragrance of her arousal.

"But you are," she sighs in delight as he gets to his feet, his slightest movements always imbued with a panther's grace; she is sure he does this deliberately to mesmerise the people around himself, slowing down his walk and his gestures to capture the observer's gaze. "Beautiful."

"I shall not object to that," he says softly and brings his hands to the waistband of his trousers, meaning to undress. 

However, by a sudden impulse, a need to linger and to worship, she sits up and places her hands over his. "May I?" She asks and looks up at him, her hands on either side of his genitals, framing them like whorled leaves at the root of a column. 

He combs her hair with his fingers, tender, amused. "You may, my child."

 _No one has said that about me for a long time._ She wonders about this as she begins to undo his clothes, now feeling a fool for all those times she and the other girls had scorned the Countess and him for being _old, so old._

_Ursula, you fool!_ she scolds herself. Pray, what gawky youth would have posture like this, poise like this, grace like this? What boy of her age would even know his own power, his virility, his magnetism the way Kurt knows his? She cannot even imagine Kurt as a lanky boy, in fact; even in his youth he must have been--well--at least as graceful as a pedigree cat, before he grew into this big cat whose warm flanks she is now allowed to caress with her hands. Oh, he may be a man balding, he may be a man wrinkled, but to Ursula he is the most beautiful and most handsome man--no, cat--hell, _living creature!_ \--she has ever seen.

And this beauty is something she now wants to feast upon, removing his boots with a slow adoration; she undoes the buttons at the legs of his jodhpurs and slides her hands inside along the silken socks, cupping his calves and nestling there.

"That's not how you undo them," he scolds her playfully, even if they both know she is doing this only to linger. 

"Do you take the jodhpurs off before you take off the garters?" she asks, again pretending innocence.

"Yes," he says and shows her how. "Slide them down, like that."

And she cannot help it: she takes the still-warm trousers and presses her face against them, inhaling his scents, so vivid they fan out in her mind a palette of colours: his musk a blue-black sea and night; his sweat and the odour of his sex a mixture of red and bronzed brown, here and there punctuated by the white and pink sugar of her sap. 

"You smell so good," she sighs in explanation.

"I am still here," he laughs. "The scent is much stronger here," he says and gestures towards his underpants, now laying himself down on the rug beside the fire. "Come here, my child."

She kneels between his parted legs, reverent as she undoes his garters, sliding off his socks caressingly; she smooths down the hair on his legs, even blows upon his toes to dry them, getting a yelp out of him. He does not seem to mind this, the cruel tyrant now vanished underneath the lover joyous: again, she wonders how long it's been for him since he'd last got to play with a woman like this, since he last got to be so tender and so playful and so affectionate. It's impossible for her to ever even imagine him and the Countess like this, so light and so free and so gay; what would _she_ know of the poetry of these long limbs of his, even the flames seeming to linger over each long muscle as they dance upon his skin? 

Gently, she rolls down and removes his underpants, careful not to catch the skin of his sack upon them; with a sudden hunger, she begins to kiss his thighs, his buttocks, his hips. It's such a rare pleasure, this, being able to feel the softestmost parts of him, the amazing feminine tenderness upon his inner thighs and on his lower belly. Especially now that he's shorn himself of hair, too, the sight and feel of his silken, soft pudendum is to her an outright shock. She never realised a man's flesh could be a little raised here, too, a mound; not as raised as her own mons veneris, but so strikingly similar that she cannot stop marvelling at it with her fingertips, her lips. Why, if she squints, she can almost imagine herself kissing a woman's sex, and the strange thrill this gives her makes her nipples harden against his thighs. 

He jerks underneath her, twitches, but lets her continue in this, even if he tries to hide just how much he is savouring this act of worship; but by the way his breath catches, by the way his belly ripples as she nuzzles his pubis--just as he'd nuzzled hers--she can tell just how overwhelmed he feels. His fingers sink into her hair, but now yearning, cherishing rather than cruel; again, his hips twitch and his cock leaps against her face, he rutting a little into the softness of her cheek.

When she lifts up a little for air, she is dizzy, and so is he: a string of his arousal dangles between her hair and the tip of his cock, like a thin chain of silver entwined with her thicker ringlets of gold. For a long moment, they but remain suspended there in a sweet languor, she nestled between his legs and her mouth close to the wonderful heat of his skin, she almost touching him with her lips: she could not bear to leave the warm aura of his body, now, could not bear to return to the coldness of the rest of the room. Magnetic, his heat draws her to him like a heavenly body orbiting his sun--there, again she thinks of him as her sun, his light and his heat her only refuge in the desolation of this miserable mountaintop. 

His heat and his eyes: they pull her to him naturally, with the mesmerism of the predator that stares down its prey, leaving the hapless beasts so entranced, so filled with marvel at his power that surely they tremble with a strange ecstasy before they are devoured. This, she had thought of him that first night he had made her his, and all consecutive nights since: if anything, his draw has only become stronger day by day, the gravitational force by which he makes her again his, his, his.

"Come," he says, and it is the queerest of sounds, a soft meaow.

He pulls her up his body, slowly, luxuriating in her softness and plushness and sweetness just as she luxuriates in the combination of his silken skin and hard muscle, long and lean sinew. Just as she had thought of cats concealing hard and sharp cruelties within their velvet paws, so does she ever marvel at the felinity of Kurt's entire body, the pardness of his entire self: this silken smoothness beclawed, this cruel and lithe beauty of his, this masculine power conjoined with a distinctly feminine grace only further emphasising his kinship with--no, _confirming his nature as that of_ \--the great cat. For a moment, she is making love to a pantheress, she thinks, the way he glides underneath her so sinuously, the way he purrs beneath her so gently, his fingertips so soft upon her buttocks; a she-cat playing with another. Even as her mound settles against his belly, their softnesses are most perfectly matched; she thinks of those women she has read about in forbidden books, tribades rubbing their sexes against one another's. 

Yet, underneath all that, a most tremendous force of muscle and bone now captures her in its embrace. For it's as if he had heard her thoughts and now sought to prove himself, to show to her his manhood, to prove to her this pard was indeed one bepricked, befanged, beclawed: he crushes her against his chest, clutching her with his thin and long arms, tight, tight; with a new hunger, he devours her mouth, marking her lips and her tongue and her neck and her breasts with his teeth. His crooked teeth, their marks like the characters of some exotic language; with these and his long, manicured fingernails, he now writes his own signature upon her skin over and over, carves his name into her flesh over and over: no love poem, this, but a declaration of ownership. 

He smacks her buttocks and digs his nails in there, too, jiggling her flesh in his hands. "Enough," he growls, pulling back with a gasp. "Ride me."

Unable to resist one last tease, she rolls her hips, dragging her pussy all over his cock, making sure to wet it thoroughly. "Yes, sir," she says, a little too playfully for a subordinate, relishing the way his body responds to hers. 

But then, she cannot tease any longer: always, always his cock feels bigger than it looks when she takes it inside of herself, a brutal width and length now stretching the muscles at the entrance of her pussy. She staggers as she balances there, struggling to get it inside of herself despite her arousal--or exactly because she is now so swollen that it seems there's less room inside of her. This position is especially difficult for her because of the depth of the penetration, with the full weight of her body sinking upon him so fast, faster than her sex can expand around his; already, the head of his cock presses upon her internal organs, pushing up at her guts and her very lungs. She has to balance her hands upon his chest, fight nausea as her body adjusts to the penetration; yet she is glad that he allows her this, allows her to take him at her own pace, he sometimes having taken her so fast he'd ended up bruising her for days. 

That tenderness she has just been showering him with has now turned to her advantage, clearly, in that it has been diluting his sadism; that, and he can never fully disguise the way he is always overwhelmed by the way she feels around him. He closes his eyes, his head resting upon the rug, all the tension upon his face suddenly gone; his hands flutter upon her arms, but soon fall slack by his sides as he revels in her softness, wetness, sweetness a man entranced.

Even as his monocle falls from his eye, he does not immediately replace it, the way he usually does; he seems, for a moment, free of care in a way that awakens a strange tenderness in her heart, the heart she had always thought too black to feel pity for such vulnerabilities, especially in men. It is his strength she adores, his ability to take her, claim her, care for her and guide her; yet now, the pleasure his body begins to give her overrides any scorn that would otherwise have risen in her at the sight of male weakness. 

But it is as if he has, again, heard her thoughts: his hands come up to clutch at her arms and he hisses through his teeth, his eyes narrowing into cold, sharp blades. "Put your hands behind your back, girl," he says, again taking charge, "the way they were before," he says, accompanying his command with a hard thrust of his hips. "I want to see that little pussy," he says and smacks her arms away, replacing his monocle in his right eye.

She does as she is told, even if it's difficult for her to balance there without leaning on him with her hands: yet, she is determined to perform well. Even if she knows he is doing this to stop her from coming again, to torture her, to give to himself the illusion of his but using her for his own pleasure, she nevertheless sets out to claim hers. She has learned to ride him well, expertly, even without being able to use her hands; her thighs know his hips and settle in place. Slowly, she begins to lower herself and lift herself with rhythmical movements; she teases him with her inner muscles, giving him long drags and dips with them, drags and dips like a belly-dancer, as good as anything he could get at an Egyptian café. _Take that, Mata Hari!_ Thus, even as she is getting short of breath, she is defying him with her body, pushing out her vulva to tease his eyes as well as his cock, giving to him more of the very thing that now drives him out of his mind. 

"Fuck!" he snaps from between his teeth, shivering as she so rides him, the conqueror himself trampled underneath the conquered. He stares at her pussy, his eyes wide; he brings his thumb to the top of her slit and pushes it up, whimpering at the feel and sight of her vulva. "So soft, so pretty, so _plush--_ God, God, _Ursula--!_ " he gasps, now puffing heavily through his nose, the veins on his temples swelling once more. "God!" he cries out and throws back his head, an ugly noise escaping from his throat as he clutches at the rug, thumbs at her pussy, his monocle finally falling from his eye and skittering onto the floor.

And now, her own pleasure has risen so that his cock no longer feels uncomfortable inside of her, only wonderful, wonderful: like the rush of champagne, champagne sparkling-in-the-belly and champagne rising-into-the-limbs and champagne dizzying-the-head wonderful, and she has to have more of it, more. The walls of her pussy are so sensitised, now, their every nerve so keen and so alive that the tiniest movement against them sets off glittering waves that are like little pearls of more champagne, rising and leaping and making her body dance, light and high with pleasure; light, high. 

And dance there she does, keening in her own chest, her belly rippling as she curves over him, her hands still clasped behind her back; her hair falling over his head and sparkling, too, a wild golden cascade when she leans down to steal a kiss. A kiss, because his mouth upon hers--she does not know how--sensitises the nerves further, multiplies the sensations in her pussy a thousandfold, making her squeeze even harder around him; that touch of his mouth upon hers makes his cock hit her somehow even deeper, deeper, deeper as her insides expand, as if wanting to swallow him inside of herself. Finally, his cock does not hurt her womb any longer and with each descent of hers, its head strikes the very back of her sex, the seat of her sparkling, surging, bursting bliss; as he moves his thumb _just_ to the hood of her clitoris from old experience, the nerve-impulses from both clitoris and vagina connect once more and strike violent, hard waves out of her womb, now convulsing so powerfully it's simultaneously a pleasure and a pain. 

He, too, notices these waves--he has told her that she's the first woman with whom he's actually felt them--and makes sure to stay especially still so as not to disturb them, another arcane womaniser's skill he takes pride in, one of a set of his sexual witchcrafts with which to steal women from their husbands, "to make sure they never go back." And to assert himself, his virility, he coils up his own power to strike her with it once more, concentrating it upon his thumb, flicking at her clitoris with unerring precision. Even as he huffs there with his face red, his teeth gritted, spittle glittering upon his lips, he turns himself into _penetration itself:_ prick, gaze, the shocks he now gives to her with his thumb all piercing her over and over, like some triple lightning-weapon wielded by a god of old. 

And like lightning, she shines, like gold, she shines, like the fire she shines, hard and bright; impaling herself upon him in joyous sparkling waves, waves, waves. She rises and crests, her body curling above him like a bow; chuckling deep in his chest, he tenses this bow with every stroke of his thumb, with every laughter-ripple he now laves her body with, higher, higher until he finds the point of release--

"Come!" he cries and slaps her breasts with his free hand. So hard does he strike her that she judders atop him, shrieking; "Come!" he cries even louder than she, and pushes up into her, still keeping up the exact same martial rhythm, never ceasing in his striking and clawing of her breasts. 

She screams, screams straight into his face, into his devil's grin: pours herself a fountain into the wicked glittering of his eyes, he sucking her soul out of her now that he has distilled of her a wine; just as her muscles now suck at him, pulling, lifting her halfway off his cock before plunging her down on it again. And again, she plunges herself down, pounding those ripples, sparkles out of her womb until her entire body is convulsing, spasming; now frenzied, sobbing, snorting, letting out the most horrendous of noises, she tosses upon him an animal crazed. Her hands fall to his shoulders, yet he keeps on rubbing her, she letting out a high whimper in her throat as she rides his hand; his strokes now smear her wetness between their bellies and yet she keeps on crashing against him, washing onto him, sobs bubbling out of her mouth as he catches a nipple between his teeth. Relentless, uncaring of her shrieks he worries at her breasts, pinching them and biting her as long as she keeps on jerking on top of him, as if exerting some sort of twisted revenge upon her for the female release being this long and profound in its intensity. 

"Please," she finally cries, her pussy so sore, her breasts so sore; she pushes his hand aside, collapsing on top of him, heaving, her flesh still slurping around his length. 

But now it's his turn to revel, to feast. The beast in him springs free from this cage of restraint and now turns her onto her back, taking her as she lies there, half-dead, having his way with her just like his ancestors did with village women. "Such a pretty little pussy," he lisps and keeps on lisping, "such a pretty, pretty little pussy," staring at it as he writhes into her frantically, holding her legs wide apart so that he can see everything, see himself sinking into her, taking this girl-child. 

He must be in agony, she thinks dizzily, from having held back for so long; his noises become higher and higher as he plows into her without rhythm, without any of that strict self-discipline he'd displayed before. He is hurting her, she so sore by now, but she knows she can't stop him now; she owes this to him, after all the pleasure he's given her, the orgasms he tells her most women never get.

"No, no, no, no," he nevertheless mewls, even as he keeps on pounding into her, as if his body had run away from him a thief and he were chasing it, trying to catch up with it. "I'm sorry, Ursula, I'm sorry--I must--"

And it is then that he slides out of her, slides the tip of his cock down that path of slickness her pussy has made to the abundant wetness between her buttocks; he seeks the opening of her anus and begins to push in, to drive, to push in. 

He does it so fast that she barely realises what he is doing until he is already partially in, the sharp flash of pain finally awakening her to the reality of sodomy. She tries to speak, but all of her stiffens, cramps, freezes; the shock of the sudden intrusion locks her body up entirely.

Yet, "I must have it, I must have it," he babbles, holding her by the hips, uncaring if her foot knocks a few strands of his hair free from their slicked-back arrangement; "Ursula, you promised," he whimpers as he pulls back and drives in again, not even looking at her face, so focused on satisfying his perverse craving. 

Yet she remains stiff, hard, cold, unable to take him in; the pain is much harsher than she thought it would be, this new sensation so violent, so completely unlike ordinary sex. It feels as if he is bigger than anything she's ever evacuated, far too big for her to take, each nudge of his a pain that makes her guts curl with nausea.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, absent-minded.

"Yes," she spits, barely audible.

"Well!" he laughs, still staring down at where he's holding his prick, trying to guide it in. "It always hurts a little the first time," he coos.

And him saying that makes a cold lash of horror whip through her, one far worse than the pain itself: that he truly does not care, that he is even enjoying this.

 _No._ She will not let him. Lady Ursula Cannon, the future _Baroness von Kolb_ deserves pleasure, just as he had promised her: she overcomes the stiffness, yanks one of her feet free and stamps it upon his chest.

"Kurt." She regards him, hard, sharp; even as he pants there, there is a spark of something new in his eyes, a new light that now dawns even from behind the dark clouds of his animal greed: something, she realises, not unlike _respect_.

With a noise of exasperation, the animal pulls back and surrenders to the gentleman. "Oh, all right," he sighs and lets go, scrabbling for his discarded tunic. "There you are," he says and tosses a small tube of glycerine onto her belly. "Put it on me."

"If I do that, it will undo you," she but says and--perhaps with a little cruelty, she admits to herself, as punishment for his carelessness--she applies the glycerine onto herself instead. As she'd done with the same substance before, when she'd been lubricating herself to take the enema syringe, she now pushes her fingers inside of her arse; only now, two instead of one, and coated with far more glycerine this time.

Coiled to pounce, Kurt kneels there with his fists upon his knees, deliberately not touching his cock that now sways there like an angry arrow, pointing up between his belly and his thighs; he is breathing far too laboriously and the veins upon his forehead are still swollen, and he has still not brushed back the strand of hair that's fallen onto his cheek.

Yet even as he glowers at her, she knows that underneath all of his pent-up lust-rage, he is still smart enough to appreciate this detour, understanding it for a postponement of the inevitable end. It's as if he almost had a phobia of his own orgasm, fearing the little death as much as other men feared the greater death--and thanks to that, she thinks, he also lets it exhaust him as completely as it does: only when he has been in exceptionally high spirits, full of relaxation and cheer has he been able to take her twice in one night. Yes, perhaps it is due to her own scorning of this weakness of his that she is now doing this: agreeing to follow him into this elaborately constructed labyrinth of neurosis, yet with a sense of sarcasm, ironically.

However, when she sets down the tube and spreads her legs for him once more, he surprises her by leaning over her and greeting her with a tender kiss. "I'm sorry."

"You're not, but do it anyway," she says, combing back that strand of hair, searching his eyes, guiding him between her buttocks as if it were she who were the sodomy-teacher. "Slowly."

As if to prove himself, he embraces her with a deliberate gentleness and kisses her again, this time deeply, turning his penetration of her into a dance--but this time, a duet. He takes and lifts her body and yet moves together with it, carrying her and yet letting her embrace him with her flesh in turn, she slowly moving onto him as he moves into her. With that astonishing panther grace, he now rolls his hips as he makes his way inside--it hurts far less, now--and takes her mouth and her arse rhythmically, deepening his kiss each time he pushes inside, pulling back for breath each time he withdraws from her body.

And it is her breath that he steals from her each time he pulls back, it feels, he having pressed it out of her lungs each time he's pushed inside: such is the intensity of the pleasure now unfolding in her body the moment he is past the tightest internal gates. With each stroke, the pain dissolves a little more, now turning into a curious admixture of pleasure-pain--or rather, a pleasure so raw and so tearing that it's not unlike pain; again, there, he drives in and the breath is _crushed_ out of her body by pleasure itself. The difference between this sensation and the pain she'd felt before is nothing short of fantastic, the very same act now overwhelming her, _Pleasure_ ravishing her with such violent ecstasy that she feels as if she will fall apart: she is holding on to her body as if her limbs would break off and fall crashing down under the tremors that now course through her muscles. She gasps, gags, her eyes rolling back in her head--

"Am I hurting you now?" he laughs, his breath a warm huff against her cheek.

"God," she moans, choking again as he rests atop her, so deep inside of her that all those other times he's penetrated her feel like nothing, now, all sex before this having been but rehearsals, but games; like children playing doctors and nurses and that until now, she has been but a virgin. She wants to tell him that ordinary sex now feels like a joke, but she can't string words together; and worst of all, now that he has stopped moving, her arse begins to cramp around him, wanting to lock itself up again, the stabbing pain returning. "God--it hurts if you stop; please, don't stop--"

"Stroke yourself," he says and pulls back, truly bracing himself, now, now that he's had her permission to let go. "I want to--" he gasps, his words broken apart by his thrusts, "want to see you come--oh my god, your pussy!" he laughs and throws back his head.

And as she takes her hand to her pussy, she realises what he means: it's never been this swollen, this sensitive; even touching it hurts from how good it feels, and now it's her turn to throw back her head and howl. "Oh, God!" she shouts when she finds her clitoris, all of her folds and its hood so swollen she can barely recognise its shape, struggling to find the right spot, the sensitivemost nerve. Yet, when she finds it, that same alchemy of the nerves connecting happens here, too, and her innards _convulse_ around him, so that she curls up around him, sobbing as he, too, shouts from the sudden clutch of her muscles around his shaft. 

He growls at that, leaning down, now plunging in and out of her with ease; she cannot even control her legs any more and lets them fall, only frantically rubbing her clitoris, sobbing from shame and delight as her pussy slurps noisily, air being pushed out of it with the power of his thrusts. No colourful visions of champagne, no visions of gold can enter her mind any longer, her body's sensations so violent they subsume her mind completely: she is but hard, heavy, dark and red flesh electrified, flesh made of but reflex, reacting helplessly to his every blow. She's so wet, so hot, so wet, so swollen, so wet and she's trickling: trickling, no, _spraying_ , so that she can see herself wetting his pudendum, her urethra spasming as her orgasm begins to roll through her body. She shrieks as she watches herself, a clear spurt of what looks like piss spattering his belly, the stream of it only broken by his thrusts; yet she is unable to stop, each time his cock hits the back of her womb making it spasm so hard her entire pelvis is thrown up by the contractions. She weeps, pants, rides each wave triggered by a brutal, steady thrust from him, one after another. He is pacing himself deliberately, leering down at her like a madman, sweat pouring down his forehead and his neck; it feels as if this orgasm will never stop, that she will just keep on coming forever and ever until she is wrung dry, exhausted unto death, impaled on him like this. 

Yes, impaled: how she could ever think of vaginal sex as impalement, before, when now _all of him_ seems to be pushing inside of her, the force of his thrusts rattling her bones, her teeth with an intensity she's never felt before? Seismic, that's what he is, a cataclysm, this entire chaos of pleasure that is her body now being savaged by him: and she thought she knew what being taken meant before, the fool she was; when now, she knows what it is to be taken to every last nerve in her body flashing white from his strokes, lightning flashing in her eyes, and again she fears she will go into seizure. For even as she falls down again, lying there like a doll underneath him, it feels as if the unending orgasm begins to re-arm itself, mounting within her with even greater force, now: again, her eyes flash with black and white and she loses even the ability to stroke herself, jerking upon the floor, her eyes now fully rolled back in her head. There is but pleasure, again the lightning-whip of pleasure, striking up her spine from her guts and her pussy flooding, flowing, flooding, high--

And then, but a flash of white, and then dark.

She does not know how long she has been unconscious, but now she awakens to the greater storm having passed, her body lapped into wakefulness by waves far lighter than the tsunami that had just been crashing over her: the soft, gentle waves of his tenderness. She finds herself lying there spooned in his arms, facing the fire, his arm around her waist, at peace. His breathing is far quieter, now, his body almost entirely still: his heartbeats are steady against her back, not galloping against her in that way that always makes her fear he will have a heart attack during sex. He lies buried within her, still, even if she can feel a new wetness inside of her arse, can smell and feel the telltale bitter lye of sperm: yet he is still hard enough to not be pushed out of her body as her anal muscles, now waking up, try to reflexively eject him. 

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he chuckles, then flutters his fingertips upon the softness of her belly, causing her to squeeze again. "Ah!" he groans in delight, rolling a little into her with a purr, a big cat's rumble against her back. "Now you're just massaging me, my sweet. Yes, I think I shall keep on doing this for a while," he murmurs against her neck, kissing her behind the ear, a dance of his fingertips over her mons making her pussy flutter so that she cannot help but moan.

"There we are. Say something?" he laughs as he begins to stroke her pussy, moving into her with a relaxed slowness, now most definitely having fallen into one of his good moods. "I just want to make sure you are all right. It can be a little overwhelming, the spinal nerves overloading all at once."

"How do _you_ know so much about what it feels like?" she murmurs playfully, nuzzling her own arm because the fur rug is tickling her nose so much. 

"Ah, but that would be telling," he says with another kiss, then rolls his hips so thoroughly her womb truly begins to unfurl with heat again, her pussy pulsing against his fingers. 

"Faggot," she says, with a daring that is madness, but she is so drunk with pleasure that she doesn't care. 

And to her utter astonishment, he _moans,_ purring into her ear. "Say that again," he growls, punishing her with a violent, brutal thrust. 

"Faggot!" she but cries, laughing, delirious as she clutches at the rug: and just as she'd hoped, this word acts as but a whip, a spur to drive him into thrusting into her with a newfound wildness. "Is that why you're so hard?" she pants even as he throws her onto her belly, laughing as he nips at her shoulders with his teeth, as he arranges her on the floor for a new taking. "When you can take me like a boy?" she says as she moves her hands to her pussy, so that she can ride them as he rides her. "Is that it?"

"Little bitch," he snaps, smacking her buttocks once, twice, her giggles and her howls only louder as he beats her arse until it glows, glows as hot as the fire. "God," he moans as he parts her buttocks with his thumbs, watching as he sinks inside of her; she shrieks as he spits onto his cock to slicken it, but also no doubt to make it glisten and gleam further, he always so loving the play of the fire upon their sexes. "The next time, I'll take you just like this," he mewls through his teeth, "just like this, just like a street boy, with just _spit!_ " 

Oh, she had known, _known._ And now, visions of a young Kurt in Berlin fill her mind, the lightning-strokes of pleasure turning the images into a series of flickering shots projected upon the screen of her mind. Kurt sneaking his way into a brothel in top hat and tails, with his coat pulled up and his white scarf drawn over his face; Kurt ejaculating as a boot-girl presses her stiletto heel against his chest; Kurt fucking a tart in an alleyway, then the woman turning her face towards Ursula and it's a man, a man instead, a transvestite--Kurt falling to his knees to suck his cock--Ursula shrieks as her pussy jolts, pulses, clenches at this thought, she already tumbling towards another release. _Is it always this fast with sodomy, always this sharp, burning her up like fireworks?_ she sobs in her mind, her pussy again pulsing out so much wetness that her hands slip in it hopelessly as she convulses there. Stockinged legs, boys in sailor suits, lesbians in tuxedos, kohled dandies with rouged lips swirl in her mind and are then subsumed by the flood of pleasure, again pleasure, she falling through the streets and the bars and the alleyways as she crashes into orgasm's bliss, bliss, bliss.

"You little tart," Kurt hisses in her ear, as if he's heard; now, he is making disgusting noises, animal noises, his pants short and phlegmatic and sick, revealing to her the degenerate within. 

_What has she awakened in him? How many years has he kept this side of himself hidden?_ she now wonders as she lies there and listens, unable to even ride her hands any longer, breathless as he keeps on plowing into her. The rug burns her face, her stomach turns with nausea from his unending pounding of it, yet she lies there, bathing in this flood of perversion she has unleashed. With each of these thrusts, burns, rubs she imagines she is soaking up his poisons, soaking up all the decadence he has seen, he transferring it into her body through his sweat and his spit and his voice and his thrusts and his seed, seed, seed.

He makes a noise, a high noise as he comes inside of her again, now buried so deep inside of her he could not possibly be any deeper than this, far deeper than he has ever been inside of her pussy; his balls leap against her vulva's lips, his chest glued to her back, his sweat stinging in the welts he's clawed into her skin. And yet she keeps on absorbing him, revelling in this infertile, unnatural joining: she feels like a succubus who's succeeded in seducing a repressed clergyman, having found out his dirty secrets, having broken through his false chastity and denial. 

As he finally collapses atop her with a quiet whimper, she laces his trembling fingers with hers. "There need be no more lies between us," she says, her words archaic, old-fashioned, solemn. "I understand," she whispers and kisses his hands, "and I love it," she says, these last few words again more like that which he loves in her: the exuberant teenaged girl, excited from all that he, the man older and more experienced, can teach her. 

He but moans, hugging her so close to himself that he is crushing the air out of her lungs; again, he pulls her to her side so that they lie there spooning, he wrapping all of his limbs around her this time. It is the strangest sensation, he seeming to her like a child clinging to its mother, and yet it is now he who is sheltering her in the womblike heat of his own femininity. For a long while, they lie there, the heat of the fire drying the sweat upon their skin; even if she cannot see his face, she can feel his melancholy as his body calms down and he finally slips out of her. 

Yet she does not want melancholy to win this time; she turns around to embrace him--

\--Yet, now, with a loud and gusty noise, his sperm bursts out of her, slurping down her thighs. 

"Oh, God!" she buries her face into his chest, laughing in embarrassment.

He bursts into laughter, a fond laughter seemingly of a memory recalled as he hugs her against himself, kissing her hair. "You'll learn to hold it in."

She looks up at him, with a mixture of devilish playfulness and genuine awe. "I'm not sure if I want to know, but I feel like I've now opened the..."

"Floodgates?" he asks, biting down on a hysterical laughter as he slaps her arse, causing another burst of sperm to slurp out. 

She rolls her eyes. "You're horrible. And before you say it, yes. I like it. Just let me recover from this round, first."

He picks up her chin and kisses her softly, regarding her with awe of his own. "I've never told anyone about it, you know. Those times in Berlin. But you, Ursula..."

She silences him with a kiss. "We'll have time," she says, and now something huge swells inside of her chest, a sense of a great injustice, a great waste--of everything he has had to hide about himself for so long, all the sexual life he has not lived, has been held back from. And only by a sense of false morality, propriety, that utter _bitch_ of a shrivelled-up Countess! All that the schoolgirl knows about a tyrannical teacher now finds for itself an echo in what she imagines this grown man has had to endure with her; why, Ursula now feels as if she is all but plotting an escape with another schoolgirl. "Everything you couldn't tell her, I will be glad to hear; everything you couldn't do with her, I will promise to... well, at least try," she smiles. "If I have the equipment."

He hugs her and lets out a long, happy, disbelieving yet hopeful groan. "Oh, Ursula. The things I could show you."

"You had better," she says and hugs him back. "And don't leave anything out. Or I will never forgive you."

"Promise," he says and nuzzles her face.

"That's settled, then," she says and squeezes his fingers with hers. 

"How many days until the wedding again?"

"You've forgotten your own wedding date?" she asks him playfully, nudging his genitals with her knee in warning, even though she knows he must be asking this rhetorically. "Two weeks. Fourteen days. You fool."

"Mmm. I'm just counting how many days I still have left as a filthy bachelor," he says and rocks his hips with equal playfulness.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," she says. "I want us to do it the other way round. That from the wedding day on, it will be nothing _but_ freedom. And filth. So you'd better prepare yourself; perhaps you should take on a vow of chastity while you still can."

"Mmm-hmm?" he chuckles, searching her with his eyes; there is that wonderful awe in them that is of the man who cannot believe what he is hearing, that whatever he is being told is too good to be true.

"Mmm-hmm," she says. "You'll forget what chastity is like, afterwards. I'll make sure of that."

"I must be dreaming," he says, "but I'll take it," he sighs.

"Then we're dreaming the same dream," she says and pulls him even closer. "And I'm glad."

And he looks at her as if a man who's just stepped out of a prison, greeting the sunlight for the first time in years. 

"And so am I, my sweet, sweet Ursula," he sighs, "so am I." 

And a baroness now stretching upon her bridal bed, she laughs deep from her hips and takes his mouth with a kiss.

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable promo post for the fic on Tumblr, [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/170579688858/fic-lustschloss-kurt-von-kolbursula-nc-17)


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